So Tight

So I'm almost a week into this whole being thirty-three thing. I'm not going to so the standard "oh crap time is inexorably marching me on toward my death boy do I feel old now I'm in my last years of being in my 'early thirties'" bullshit, because there is always someone older who will say, "shut the fuck up you're young you asshole," and that someone older will always be right.

And I've been thinking what exactly to write for my first entry as a thirty-three year old, so much so that I kinda blew past actually writing an entry when I turned thirty-three. I mean, this is really the first birthday that I have nothing to complain about. I'm doing what I want to do (for now). I have someone who loves me (though unfortunately she's still going through her searching for herself phase, but at least I'm gettin' some, yo). And so the only thing that I really want that I don't have is to be a successful writer, which probably won't happen within a single year (I'm over 35,000 words, a little less than halfway through the novel). Well that and the reason why Berkeley / foodiemaniac chick went incommunicado so suddenly after telling me how I was basically Christian Slater and she was Patricia Arquette in True Romance (and trying to figure that out goes more into trying to figure out the female mind, which is as futile as trying to teach a dog not to lick its nuts).

So this entry is more like the agnostic version of a prayer, a wish that before the next birthday, I'm well on my way to becoming interviewed by Entertainment Weekly, featured on Rolling Stones Hot list, a rugged black and white photo of me in a black suit and holding a baseball back slung over my shoulder (that is a reference from the novel) inset in various magazines.